


knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend

by havisham



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Attraction, Cheating, First Meetings, M/M, No One Is Ravished (Sadly), Post-Canon, Second Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1565570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Take me to you, imprison me, for I / Except you enthrall me, never shall be free / Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.</i> </p><p>Andrew Raynes gets a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amoama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/gifts).



> Dear Amoama, 
> 
> I'm sorry I couldn't give you threesomes. I really, really tried. But it just didn't happen. Instead, this did. You could maybe think of this a _pre_ -threesome. (If Andrew, Laurie, and Ralph all survive the war and find each other again and are in the mood for it later, I mean.)

__ Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you  
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;  
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend  
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

__

 

Andrew thought of Laurie often enough, thoughts that were tinged with both regret and relief. Regret because he knew that he would likely never see him again, would never have the chance to discuss the Phaedrus with him, and relief because … it was odd, thinking back to it, to that smirking man who had said he was Ralph Lanyon, who had so casually laid claim to Laurie and mocked Andrew’s own dismay. Andrew had hit him almost without thinking and Lanyon had fallen to the ground, shocked and bleeding. 

“I thought you were a pacifist,” he spat out, the blood from his cut lip staining his teeth. He was laughing still. 

Andrew had felt sick, looking at him, and knew that he could never see Laurie again.

The finality of that thought brought its own kind of relief. 

**  
***

The rain was the persistent kind that leaked and trickled into every little fold, no matter how small and no matter how resolutely Andrew had dressed that morning, knowing it would rain. 

The air smelled of wet wool and smoke, coming from some distance away. Someone handed him a thick ceramic mug sloshing with tea and he thanked them, slurring his words together. Tonight had been a long, long night, but Andrew was still alive for the end of it, and so he felt a dull sense of ecstasy at the thought of crawling back to bed and sleeping until he had to wake and do this all over again. 

Andrew saw Dave rarely now -- except for sleepy hellos and goodbyes, they hardly spoke. He supposed the biting guilt he felt -- except for him, Dave needn’t be here, Dave needn’t put himself in danger every night for Andrew. He owed Dave so much and could pay nothing back. Dave, of course, demanded nothing back. Andrew supposed that it was it in this way that Dave was more of a father to him than Bertie Raynes could have been. 

Only for a parent could one feel so much love, so much regret at being a disappointment -- feel so much and express so little. 

**  
***

He had dug out a shocked little girl from the rubble, miraculously without a scratch on her. He didn’t know why she’d attached herself to him or who she belonged to -- and she answered none of his questions. She was small and dark, and clutched a cloth doll at her side. He had brought her to a first-aid station right away, but she didn’t stay there. As he was trying to persuade her to stay, someone called his name. He was needed. 

She stuck by his side for the rest of night, despite his repeated warnings to keep away and get herself somewhere safe. Finally they compromised: she would stay out of the way while he was working and he would not scold her anymore. He was able to lead her to another first-aid station and hand her over to a nurse who did not look too overwhelmed. He had met the nurse before; she was kind and reminded him a bit of Nurse Adrian, back at the hospital in Bridstow. 

The girl wasn’t willing to speak to her either, although she perked up when given a sandwich. Andrew too took this chance for a rest. “What’s your name?” he asked her. 

For a long moment, he did not expect her to speak. But finally she said, “Mabel.” 

Andrew nodded and took the seat beside her. “Mabel, yes, my grandmother was named Mabel. A good-old fashioned name.” 

“Is she still alive, your grandmother?” Mabel asked him, in between bites of bread and something orange and thick. 

Andrew shook his head. “She died when I was still in school.” He stopped and thought that this told Mabel nothing. He must look anywhere from twenty to fifty for her. But she nodded wisely, and they were quiet for awhile, before someone called Andrew’s name, and he got up and bade farewell. She took his hand briefly and looked at him. 

“Good luck,” she said, and gave him a brief smile. Her front teeth were missing; she looked very young. 

“Thank you,” Andrew said, smiling back. “Good luck to you too.” 

**  
***

There were always more people about, carrying on their daily business in the midst of disaster. He couldn’t pay attention to most of them, and didn’t think most of them even noticed him but -- there was one man who came around once or twice. He was an RNVR officer and seemed vaguely familiar. 

Andrew could have sworn he was looking for him -- but then he was gone as if he had never been. It wasn’t until later, coming back to Dave’s after a long, long shift, Andrew ran into him again. But this time, it was no doubt about it. The officer was walking toward him, he meant to speak to him. 

Andrew contemplated the effort it would take for him to cross the street rather than put one laborious foot in front of the other. He decided it wasn’t worth it and waited for the man to speak. But instead, he merely looked at Andrew, with shrewd blue eyes, taking in his measure. 

“Hello,” Andrew said, “are you waiting for someone?” 

For a moment, the officer looked almost uncertain, as if he had been tasked with delivering some bad news and he did not know if Andrew was the right person to receive it. “I suppose I am.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Ralph Lanyon. You must be Andrew Raynes.” 

Dazed, Andrew admitted that he must indeed be. 

“I’m sure you’re quite surprised,” Ralph Lanyon, with a brief smile that made him look a little less severe. “I’m sorry that can’t be helped.” 

“I met a person a year ago who called himself by that name,” Andrew said carefully. “He was not… a very good person.” 

Lanyon nodded, as if he had expected that this was so. “That was my fault.” He stopped and Andrew wondered if he intended to elaborate. Instead he looked at Andrew more closely and whistled softly. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep standing. Come with me, I can get you some dinner.” 

“No need. I live just over there. There’s bound to be something in the cupboards,” Andrew said firmly. And after a moment, because Lanyon looked like he was at a loss, he said, almost grudgingly, “You can come in, if you’d like. I can’t guarantee anything filling, but there’s always tea and bread.” 

“Yes, there’s always that,” Lanyon agreed and followed him up the stairs to the house. Andrew was aware of how shabby and dark it must seem -- so he turned on the light. The blackout was already down -- Dave must have done before he had gone out. There was a pot of tea waiting on the hob for Andrew to reheat it, and a half-loaf of bread to go with it. Lanyon politely refused both things and Andrew felt that he couldn’t exactly eat in front of him. So they stood, uneasy, looking at each other. 

Finally, his curiosity getting the better of him, Andrew said, “How is Laurie?” He paused worried that he was wrong again. “You do know Laurie, don’t you?” 

Lanyon nodded. “He’s up at Oxford at the moment, buried under a pile of books. Quite safe. I should imagine. And he was the reason I wanted -- to check on you.” He hesitated over the last few words. Andrew had the idea that whatever Lanyon was doing, Laurie probably didn’t know anything about it.

Andrew tensed, ready for a fight if it came to that (again) but Lanyon seemed content to watch him. Not to be outdone, Andrew stared back at him. He wondered if this Ralph Lanyon was -- well, if he was what Laurie seemed to believe he was. Andrew had believed in Laurie almost as much, and look where that had got him. 

He supposed Lanyon had had more experience staring men down, anyway, Andrew was the first to drop his eyes. Feeling a little sullen, he muttered, almost to himself, “I’m not even sure why I let you in here. After all, you haven’t explained why you were impersonated in the first place.” 

Lanyon’s gaze turned cool. Unasked, he took a seat at the kitchen table and asked if he could have a drink. 

“We only have water and tea. Or Carrotade, if you’d like,” Andrew said. Lanyon winced and waved away any more of Andrew’s attempts at hospitality. 

Andrew decided that it was now or never that he would eat something. A slice of national loaf, without butter or even margarine, was difficult to swallow, but he imagined that the story Lanyon was about to tell him would be even more so. But still he took the seat opposite Lanyon’s and motioned him to go on. 

“I don’t suppose you have many enemies,” Lanyon said and Andrew nearly laughed aloud. 

“Before or after my Board?” 

There was a small silence before Lanyon said, “Point taken. I was careless at the time, and one of my friends turned out to be not so friendly. He wished to hurt Laurie, and through him, me. You were just a civilian casualty, I’m afraid.” 

“Nice to be so well-thought of. And the things he said about you and Laurie, they weren’t true. Were they?” Andrew waited for a denial, or for Lanyon to get angry. 

Lanyon did neither. “It is true, but perhaps not in the way that he described it.” 

Andrew thought that if he would have taken a seat just then, if he hadn’t already been sitting down. Now it seemed to make sense, both the reason Laurie had chosen to see him that day he had brought the book, and the way Dave had so strongly advised Andrew to forget Laurie altogether. 

Almost without thinking, Andrew asked, “Is he ashamed of what he feels?” 

“Are you?” 

“I don’t know --” Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, which had begun to ache. “I don’t know what I am and I don’t think I’ve had much time to find it out -- without interference, I mean.” He looked at Lanyon defiantly, but Lanyon only looked amused. 

“Do you have a piece of paper?” he asked and Andrew, at loss, only nodded and got up to fetch it. He found a crumpled bit of paper in one the drawers and handed over to Lanyon. Lanyon scribbled down a few lines and handed it back to him. 

“That’s the address of my permanent digs -- more or less. Laurie stays there sometimes, when he isn’t at Oxford. He’d be glad to see you, however confused you still might be.” 

Andrew looked down at the address -- in Bridstow, a street he’d never been to before. He noticed that Lanyon’s handwriting hadn’t much changed. “I don’t want to be a disruption.” 

Lanyon gave a brief laugh and saw that he was serious. “War is a disruption. Your visit wouldn’t be.” 

Andrew didn’t quite know if Lanyon was saying that he thought Andrew was the right sort or if he proven to be essentially harmless. He wasn’t quite sure if he liked either of those options. Still, he put the piece of paper in his pocket and thanked Lanyon, a little distantly. 

Lanyon held out his hand and it was only then Andrew noticed that he had kept his left in his pocket the whole time. They shook hands and Lanyon was gone, swallowed up by the gloom of the city. 

**  
***

Andrew kept the piece of paper tucked between the pages of the Phaedrus. Often, he would take it out -- he kept the book with him now, feeling obscurely that he should read it in the odd moments when he had time to do so, but usually failing to do so. He wondered what harm it would do to write to Laurie at least (care of Ralph Lanyon, said a rather mischievous voice in his head, the origins of which he had no clue about), and explain himself. 

But he didn’t, and time went on until he was sure that the address he had was hopelessly out of date. But still, on the morning of his day off, Andrew decided to go anyway. He didn’t tell Dave where he was going, and Dave, in his wisdom had not asked him. 

On his way back to bloody Bridstow, Andrew grew used to the unfriendly looks he received, as an apparently healthy man, but not in uniform. In London, most people only saw his helmet and outstretched hand, that was enough for them. He tried to remember old landmarks from his journeys to Bridstow before, but they escaped him. 

He almost slept through his stop and only realized it at the terminus. By dint of asking anyone who looked as they knew where they were going, he discovered that the street Ralph lived on was a long way from the station. Before leaving, he remembered that he had brought nothing with him. This, of course, could not do and so he bought a some dispirited-looking daisies from the man selling them at the gate. 

And of course by then, it had started to rain. 

**  
***

The address was a large house that had seen more prosperous days. Andrew rang the doorbell and waited to be let in. A middle-aged woman with grey hair let him, and when she heard that he was looking for Ralph Lanyon’s rooms, she pointed down the hall. “Second door to the right,” she said, looking with frank disapproval at Andrew’s dripping form. 

Andrew tried to dry himself off before he went down the hall, but it was useless. He hesitated in front of the door, but knocked on it anyway, firmly. He had come this far, after all. 

For a horrible moment, nothing happened and he thought that he was too late and they had already moved away -- or Lanyon had been purposely spiteful. But after a long moment, he heard a loud thump and the slow drag across the floor. Laurie was saying something, and when he opened the door, his face was as guarded as Andrew had ever seen it. 

But that changed when he realized who it was.

“Hello,” Andrew said shyly. “I should have written.” 

“Andrew! You are -- ” Laurie looked stunned and then dropped his gaze. He had obviously not been expecting any visitors, dressed as he was in a plaid dressing gown, with only a threadbare shirt under it. “Very welcome, of course. Come in. You’re soaking.” He began to usher Andrew inside, and Andrew allowed himself to be led, feeling half like a truant schoolboy and half the prodigal son.

Laurie seated Andrew beside the small fireplace and began, systematically stripping him of his defenses -- first his coat and then, hesitating, of his shirt. “I won’t look -- I have a clean one, one moment.” 

He wanted to refuse, but Laurie had already turned his back and marched determinedly on. Andrew took the time to look around. It was a plainly-furnished room -- almost severe. A fireplace with with a settee in front of it, on the right, a mantlepiece bare except for the presence of a clock, an upright piano in the corner. He wondered if it was in tune. There was small painting of a frigate hung over it, someone’s effort at decorating. There was door on the left, leading perhaps to a bedroom or two. 

The only break from the monotony of the grey walls and the dark floor was Laurie’s books and papers, scattered in front of the fireplace, and the slouching settee that he had been using as a chair. Without meaning to, exactly, Andrew leaned in to read the writing on the piece of paper closest to him said. He knew Laurie’s handwriting, of course, but it was new to read Laurie’s thoughts on Browning. 

“Here it is,” Laurie said, coming back in and draping the shirt around Andrew’s shoulders. Andrew jerked away, feeling oddly guilty. He should have heard Laurie come in, of course. He went on, as if he hadn’t caught Andrew snooping, “I feel like I should offer you something to eat, but I am absolutely rotten at cooking. There is tea, however, and a few biscuits.” 

At Andrew’s wondering look, Laurie laughed. 

“I know. You’ve never seen me in the domestic sphere,” he said, with an unconscious flourish. 

“I thought you might be angry, seeing me again,” Andrew said slowly. “I was --” 

“No, never, it was I that --” 

They stopped for a moment. Laurie’s expression, softened by nostalgia cleared for a moment, and grew sharper and more speculative. “It was Ralph who came to see you, I expect.”

“Yes,” Andrew said, astonished at his guess. “The real Ralph Lanyon.” 

“The genuine, the authentic Ralph Lanyon,” Laurie said, smiling. Then he shook his head, as if in reproach. “My dear, I did mean to write and explain everything, but after that time -- I thought perhaps Dave was right and I --” 

“Dave? What’s Dave to do with it?” Andrew’s voice was sharper than he had intended and Laurie’s face fell. 

He spoke his next words reservedly. “Nothing. I should have known without needing to talk to him.” 

“But what did he say?” Andrew drew close and studied Laurie’s face. “I wish you’d stayed and talked to me. I hate being shut out, by you most of all.” 

Laurie ran his hand through his hair -- a nervous gesture that Andrew had never seen him do before -- and shrugged. “He told me about a little about your family. And I felt that it would be wrong of me to interfere --- Andrew, you know I care about you? That I would never do you harm?” 

“I don’t think you would harm me,” Andrew said. Now, he reached for the book that was in his pocket and realized that it wasn’t there. He rose and reached for his coat and brought it out. The pages were slightly wavy with damp and he laid it out carefully on the floor and sat in front of it. Laurie shuffled closer to peer at it. 

“You kept it?” he said, his voice oddly choked. 

“How could I not? It was the only thing I had from you,” Andrew said. Then he blushed. “Sorry. That’s quite sentimental.” 

“Almost mawkishly so,” Laurie agreed, sitting down beside him with a groan. They sat in silence for a while before Laurie continued on. “Did you _read_ it?” 

Andrew studied the floorboards with great interest. “I did start it.” 

“Andrew!” 

“It’s actually quite difficult to find time to read just now,” Andrew said, giving Laurie a straight, calm look.

Laurie almost smiled and shook his head. “Of course. I do understand.” 

Andrew hesitated over his next words. “And besides, I would … miss things without you there to discuss them with me.” He looked around to Laurie’s books. “I’m not as well-read as you are and --” 

“Andrew,” Laurie said softly, which was when Andrew leaned in and kissed him. 

He expected -- something to happen, an interruption, the Germans to drop a bomb on their heads, for Lanyon to appear suddenly, or even Nurse Sims, summoned back by the sheer impossibility of the situation -- but nothing appeared. Nothing happened, except they kissed again. 

Andrew pressed his advantage, caressing Laurie’s cheek. He wanted more and better than what he had. He wanted Laurie and for the moment, he didn’t care about the consequences. Laurie was the first to pull away -- reluctantly, but he did. 

He gave a slight shake of his head and said, “Would you like tea?” 

“No,” Andrew said, feeling slightly chastened -- but no regret, not yet. 

“Just as well. I don’t think I have any,” Laurie said, looking down. He was blushing. 

Andrew shifted in his seat and heard a strange crumpling sound. The flowers he had brought had found themselves stuck in between the cushions of the settee. He pulled them out and presented them to Laurie, who took them with a chuckle. 

They talked for what seemed hours -- until at last, Andrew happened to glance at the little travel-clock on the mantlepiece that read five o’clock. He would have to leave soon if he wanted to catch the last train back. Laurie followed his glance and sighed. “Time to put up the blackout,” he sighed. 

“I’ll help,” Andrew said, getting up. 

“You don’t need to,” Laurie said firmly. 

Andrew agreed and did so anyway. Afterwards, he gathered up his things and prepared to say goodbye to Laurie. 

“You will come again?” Laurie asked, his expression intense. “And write? And read the book, for God’s sake, Andrew.” 

Andrew nodded, suddenly fervent. “I will,” he promised, feeling tempted to kiss Laurie again. But he stopped himself in time and went to the door. He walked quickly out of the house, thankful that the landlady was not there this time. 

He stopped for a breath as his feet hit the pavement outside, and that was a mistake, he had walked into a small cloud of smoke. Alarmed, Andrew looked around, waiting for the air raid sirens to begin, but instead there was nothing -- except Ralph Lanyon standing in front of him, smoking a cigarette. 

He had been waiting by the front door for Andrew, for -- who knew how long? How _did_ Lanyon know these things? 

Lanyon offered no explanation at all, only dropped the stub of his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “The landlady will tear strips off me for loitering. This is supposed to be a respectable establishment. She’ll raise my rent next,” he said, looking resigned. He was dressed in his uniform, but looked noticeably less neat than he had looked before. 

It took Andrew a moment to realize he was not quite sober.

"A long day?" Lanyon said with polite concern.

“Not as long as yours, I think,” Andrew said carefully. He had the awful desire to scuttle away without another word, but he knew that was impossible. Unpleasant things never went away until you dealt with them, and he never could lie and be believed. “I kissed Laurie. It was my fault, I did it and I know I shouldn’t have.”

There was a short silence before Ralph said dryly, “Then your confusion has been dealt with?” 

Andrew went doggedly on, ignoring Lanyon’s words. “You can hit me if you like -- but I can’t say that I won’t defend myself.” 

“Don’t be so melodramatic, you’re not in a film. Will you come in?” 

“No thanks. I’ve a train to catch.” 

“Don’t let me keep you,” Lanyon began, and Andrew was already past him when Lanyon spoke again. “You can come back, if you want to.” 

Andrew turned to him in astonishment. “I don’t understand. Do you _like_ to torture yourself?” 

“Only in very specific circumstances. No, I meant that Laurie would like it.” 

“I -- I will think about it.” 

“All I ask,” Lanyon said easily, letting Andrew go at last. 

**  
***

Fortunately, a train ride was usually conducive to thinking. But Andrew’s thoughts were in a jumble, flashes of emotion mixing together with his new self-knowledge. He had been glad to see Laurie, Laurie whom he knew he loved. And not in the distant, theoretical way that he had thought of before -- but something real and present. 

He would see Laurie again, he was sure of it. 

But would Lanyon be there? To his everlasting shame, Andrew rather hoped he would be. Lanyon was fascinating, new where Laurie was familiar and loved. And Andrew had eyes, he knew that Lanyon was handsome, in a way, though rather weathered. 

Andrew looked out the window and the light in the compartment reflected his own face back to him. In truth, Lanyon looked a little like himself. The resemblance was slight, but it was there. 

He wondered if Laurie had noticed it, and whether he liked it or not. Did Laurie like him at first because he had looked like Lanyon? No, that was a painful thought. He was sure Laurie had not loved him simply for his looks, which were after all, just average…

Oh, this was narcissism now. He couldn’t have it both ways, could he? Andrew sighed and wanted badly to sleep. He would go back to London and see Dave and finally have a long-delayed conversation. Would Dave be angry with him, for seeking Laurie out? Would he reject Andrew, like so many others had done? 

Andrew took a long breath and stiffened his spine. This was a new world, he told himself sternly, and he was new person in it. Anything could happen and he would be ready for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, very, very much lilliburlero, for being such a fantastic beta and Brit-picker. 
> 
> Thank you, Elleth, for listening to my moaning about this fic without throwing me out the window. 
> 
> Title & epigraph from John Donne, talkin' bout God.


End file.
